Treasure Island
by a rather slytherin gryffindor
Summary: Draco Malfoy was rich, hot, and a self-centered prat, the ice-prince of London high society, destined to achieve corporate greatness. Fate had always smiled on him, but then suddenly she turned her back. Or did she? Draco, its time to face destiny. SLASH
1. Chapter 1

**Hello Duckies…well, I had another middle-of-the-night story inspiration, hastily jotted down some notes and woke this morning to write this little ficlet for your viewing pleasure. Unfortunately, (for me) this will be yet another multiple-chapter story…and I've 2 others I've yet to finish! But the plot bunnies bit me, and I had to start on this one while it was still fresh. I promise, I'll not abandon my other stories for this one! And I'll try to finish at least one of them before starting another! .**

**This will not be canon-complaint…alternate reality, non-wizarding world. There will be magic, but the fairy-tale kind, as opposed to the wave-my-magic-elder-wand kind. Okay? Okay**.

**WARNING!!!! This story contains slash, as in maleXmale, as in drooling fangirls/boys and no homophobes allowed!!! Are we clear? You are all entitled to your opinions and beliefs, and welcome to them, but please refrain from forcing them upon me. If this just simply isn't your cup of tea, then by all means, don't force yourself. There are plenty of het/yuri stories out there that are fabulously written and well worth reading. Find one to your taste's and help that author improve…as for those who happen to enjoy this particular brand of tea…read on, mes amis, read on.**

**Disclaimer…I don't own them…but I do own the plot lines dancing around my brain, so MEH!!!**

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Draco Malfoy was born in the early morning hours in late December, the first born son of Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy, and there-by the heir to the vast fortune attached to the prosperous Malfoy Industries. Instead of waiting for the next day to run the page-long birth announcement, the Daily Prophet (London's largest and most widely distributed newspapers) re-called that morning's edition and reprinted it to include the good news. The welcoming party that greeted mother and newborn upon their return from the exclusive luxury hospital suite was the party of the year- a real who's-who of European high society. Baby Draco's first taste of life was the color of champagne, full of vibrant silken clothing, chiming laughter, sweet perfume, and toast after toast in his honor. That night would set the tone for the rest of his life. But Fate is a fickle mistress, prone to inexplicable and unpredictable fits of anger or whimsy, and she had set her eternal eyes on young Draco…and the unsuspecting boy's life was about to take a strange turn.

……….

Draco Malfoy stood alone at the prow of the yacht, the cool wind off the Caribbean carried with it the moisture from the storm clouds threatening overhead, ruffling his loosely styled platinum hair and pulling at the collar of his white button down shirt. Music from the party still going on, despite the late hour, washed over him, muffled, from below deck. Sighing, he leaned forward and rested his elbows on the railing, lacing his fingers together before him and staring out over the water, occasionally letting his attention be caught in the way that the water foamed and swirled viscously where the ship sliced through the ocean. The extravagant yacht belonged to the Parkinsons, and they were throwing a party to celebrate his official engagement to their daughter Pansy. As though it was some sort of surprise, as though it hadn't been pretty much planned for them since they were children, as though everyone hadn't been counting on such a union for years. A grand party to celebrate his engagement to one of the most sought-after blue-blooded women in Brittan…and he wanted nothing more than to get away from the laughter and the well-wishers (most of who were well on their way to being smashed by now). To be alone, to have a moment to himself to think…but of all the many luxuries being a Malfoy afforded him, ignoring social engagements because he simply did not feel like attending the ruddy party was not one of them. It was a party thrown for _him_, he argued silently, he should be down there, he should be ecstatic that he was finally marrying this beautiful, accomplished woman, he should be gloating over how much more powerful his family would be after this union, he should preening under all the attention, admiring the engagement gifts, and getting drunk off his sorry arse. He should be…and yet, he wasn't.

He wasn't because for the life of him he couldn't bring himself to be excited about this life-decision he was making. In fact, he'd been just plain indifferent about it for a while now, and couldn't quite figure out why. At first he'd simply chalked it up to the fact that he and Pansy had been anticipating this since they were old enough to understand what their parents expected from them, the fruits of years of being shoved together for "play dates" as children. There simply was no surprise in it, no joy of discovering his love for the sophisticated woman his childhood friend had become. He had always loved Pansy, she was his best friend, but he would have gotten down on one knee regardless of whether or not he had feelings for her, because that was what was expected from a man in his position. He was one of the lucky ones, being paired with someone attractive and agreeable, if perhaps a bit on the dim side. He wasn't going to be spending the rest of his life shackled to someone he couldn't stand, like his poor friend Theodore Nott and the horror of a countess he'd married. He was marrying his very attractive best friend…but for some reason the thought held no happiness for him.

Frustrated with himself, he pushed back from the railing and started to pace up and down the deck, knowing that he didn't have long before they'd miss him at the party and he'd have to return, but unwilling to re-enter that atmosphere in his unpleasant state of mind. Was there something wrong with him? It wasn't as though he didn't find her physically attractive, she was a beautiful woman and a right minx in bed…she never left him feeling unsatisfied, so there were no worries there. She wasn't the best conversationalist, but they had many things in common and had known each other so long that there was no awkwardness between them. She was rich and powerful and she absolutely adored him…this was supposed to be a happy occasion, he fiercely reminded himself. Perhaps he would be able to deal with this sudden disinterest in the whole affair, if it weren't for the fact that his up-coming nuptials weren't the only thing he had grown indifferent to.

His whole life he had been given anything that his heart desired, and fate had smiled kindly on him in regards to the things that money simply couldn't buy. He was Brittan's hottest young bachelor, possessing model good looks just like his parents. He was 6 foot 3 inches tall, lean but powerfully built. His eyes were a piercing gray and his hair – cut short in the back, but long enough to frame his face and fall artfully in his eyes in the front- was a blond so fair it was almost white. His skin was flawless, his teeth perfect and straight without the aid of orthodontia, and his lips full and sensual. He was a gifted athlete, muscular and toned from years of rugby and football, and he excelled at academics with an ease that left his school mates envious. He was filthy rich, and cunning enough to succeed in the business world as well, if not better, than his father did. He had never, in all his 23 years of life, wanted for anything, or been in anywhere but first place. He had toured the world, spoke multiple languages, and associated with only the most influential and wealthy of the world's elite. He wore the best, spoke with the best, ate the best, and lived in the best that money could buy, and he rather liked it that way.

He had enjoyed all the opportunities available to him to the fullest…until about a year ago. A year ago, when slowly but surely all the things he had held dear – the expensive artifacts he collected, the designer clothing he wore, the prestigious company he was in line to head- started to lose his interest. He knew that he was better than everyone else, better than those more ignorant, less attractive or less wealthy than him, in every conceivable way. Everyone wanted a piece of him, because he was miles above them, high on an ornate pedestal. There was nothing and no-one in this world he wanted that he could not get. There were no limits to his superiority, no limits to what he could do. He knew this, believed this with all his heart, and exploited those around him with a selfish callousness that had left him with a reputation as being an "ice prince". The poor he held no sympathy for, there were few people he actually cared for, and absolutely no-one he loved more than himself. He relished and flaunted his power, and the vast gulf that separated him from all those that envied him was something he took pride in. He loved that he was the absolute best, bar none…and then suddenly that was no longer enough for him. He had always been rather greedy, always wanting more than what he already had, but this was different…this time he felt anxious and restless, but he had no idea what it was that he wanted.

Draco was startled out of his reverie by the realization that his clothes were soaked through, and that the angry clouds above him were pouring sheets of driving rain upon the ocean and ship below. Shivering, he wondered how it had taken him so long to realize that it was cold, and that the wind had turned violent and forceful. Slipping and sliding his way across the slick deck, he tried to keep his balance as the deck rocked and bucked beneath him, fighting the wind as he made his way towards the door. Grasping the slippery handle, he turned and tugged on it, but the door refused to open. Logic kicked in and surmised that the ship's staff had shut and locked the doors against the storm, and hadn't seen him standing in the dark by the railing. A large, very unhappy part of him told logic to go to hell…he would see to it that whoever locked him out was fired before this was all over. He banged on the door and yelled for someone to open it, but between the sounds of the party undoubtedly still going on, and the howling of the wind outside, there was no chance that anyone was going to hear him. Cursing darkly under his breath, he forced himself to come to terms with the fact that he was locked out on deck, in the middle of a storm that was working itself up to be a typhoon. The yacht was dipping and jumping in the waves now, the water foaming and the wind pressing him back against the door behind him. The rain drove down with a frightening intensity, and hit him like a thousand tiny needles stinging and biting at him through his expensive and, now, ruined shirt and slacks.

He tried unsuccessfully to wipe away the water that was streaming into his eyes, and peered into the darkness around him in search of some sort of shelter. It was obvious to him that the deck chairs were all gone, lost to the storm, along with anything else that wasn't bolted down. Belatedly he realized the seriousness of the situation, and slowly worked his way across the deck towards the covered bar by the pool, in hopes that it would provide him with some form of protection from the storm. Gritting his teeth and making little progress against the driving wind, he swore that heads would roll for this…then realized that they had probably missed him at the party by now. The waves were rising higher and higher, and the yacht was dipping more erratically now, but he paused, turning blindly in the direction he thought the door was in and wondered if they would come looking for him soon. Would they realize he was outside? How long before someone found him? What on earth would they say, seeing him looking like a drowned rat? Suddenly lighting flashed, illuminating the world in white light for a few seconds before plunging it back into darkness and leaving an after-image burned into his retinas. It was only a few seconds, but it was long enough. He was facing the wrong way, looking out over the starboard rail and not towards the door as he had thought, but that wasn't what he was focusing on. He only had a moment to process what he had seen, and only a few seconds to panic, and then the wave hit.

It was like a truck had smashed into him, and the world tipped completely upside down as he was swept off his feet and surrounded by freezing black water, hell bent on crushing the life out of him. He was tumbling end over end, trying desperately to figure out which way was up so that he could breath, when he slammed into what his panic-fogged mind supposed was the thick metal railing. Something cracked, and a wave of pain swept through him like fire, as hot as the water was biting cold, but burning him just the same. His head rose above water for just long enough for him to draw a shuddering, gasping breath, then the water picked him up like a rag doll and tossed him overboard. Everything was confusion, black water, swirling, chocking, pain, sharp, shooting pain, and air, there was no air…he drew in a shuddering gasp, and water rushed in…he was drowning, his brain screamed, drowning…and then darkness claimed him.

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**alrighty, that's all for today. read, review, tell me what you think, and I'll update soon.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Hello again my freaky darlings! Greetings, and apologies. i've been away in basic military training, and unfortunatly, "i need to write fanfiction" is not exactly considered an excuse to stop pushing. Besides, i had no computer. :[**

**So i'm back, and i put together a little something for you all. here it is, with all of the usual warnings and disclaimers attached. enjoy!**

Heat. Pain. An overwhelming thirst. Pain. Sensations came to Draco in flashes. Brief and unpleasant, then blessed darkness enveloped him again. When he came to and managed to cling to his awareness, the pain was what hit him first. It was everywhere, all consuming, agonizing, and he was grateful for it. Grateful, because pain meant that he was still alive.

His body was twisted and bent in angles he was pretty sure it should not be, and he stifled a thread of panic. _'Jesus, I can't feel my arm. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.'_ Forcing himself to focus, he began to catalogue his physical well being, quickly determining that his left arm was out of its socket-if the angle it was bent at was any indication—and judging by how hard it was to breathe, he wouldn't be surprised if his ribs were broken. His skin felt like it was on fire, every inch of it, and he couldn't tell what burning was from the sun and what was from sea salt in countless small cuts. His head ached, his mouth was completely dry, and his eyes were crusted closed. Fighting against them, he managed to force them open, only to slam them shut again as the sun seared his retinas.

Groaning brokenly, he squinted against the glare, registering for the first time the calls of gulls and the soft crash of the surf on the shore. A beach. He was on a beach. He tried, gingerly, to move, but was hit with a wave of pain so strong that white burst behind his eyes and he had to fight down a wave of nausea. Another weak groan fell from parched and cracked lips, and he fought to recover his breath, coughing pathetically. Suddenly a shadow fell across his face, and he peered through his lashes to see what had brought him that brief relief from the sun.

An angel. There was an angel standing over him. Sunlight glowed like a halo around messy dark hair and a sun-kissed face. Beautiful, impossibly green eyes peered down at him, and sweetly pink lips were mouthing words he couldn't hear over the roar in his ears. Slowly, the roar died down and the world's sweetest tenor could be heard above it.

"-ive? Hey, are you alive? Hello? Anyone in there?"

Draco opened his eyes fully and attempted to answer, but all that came out was a pathetic moan. His angel's eyes opened wide, and those full lips pulled into a frown.

"Damn. It's alive."

Shock flitted across Draco's brain. That wasn't very angel-like. Wasn't there some rule against angels cursing? He couldn't remember…he should have paid more attention in church. Then suddenly he was being lifted into the air, and the pain hit him like a herd of hypogriffs. Blackness swept away his wonder at the angel's display of strength—how had such a delicate creature managed to pick him up so easily?—and the roaring had come back in full force. His last thought as oblivion claimed him was _'What on earth is a hypogriff?' _

White. He was surrounded by white, floating in white. Was he dead? Had his foul-mouthed angel taken him to heaven? Slowly, his eyes focused, and the blur of white around him solidified into very earthly objects. He was in a bed, large and soft, and his aching body was lying naked between cool, white sheets. The bed was canopied in more white fabric…his brain idly identified it as linen. The strips hanging down and framing the bed were moving and fluttering in a light breeze, showing his tired eyes brief glimpses of white walls and the glittering sea through an open window. He could still hear the gulls and the waves, but the sound was softer. Muffled. Peaceful.

As peaceful as the room made him feel, pain still intruded and he was suddenly all too aware of how the soft sheets felt like sandpaper on his burning skin. His head was pounding and every part of him ached beneath the burn. The worst was the thirst. His throat felt swollen closed, and he panicked for a moment while he fought to breath before his sluggish brain remembered he could just continue to breathe through his nose. He tried to move, but immediately felt sick and had to wait for the pain and nausea to pass. Desperate, he tried to call for help, but the only sound that his tortured throat could produce was a weak, painful groan.

He had never felt so pathetic, or so helpless before. He was always more than capable of caring for himself; he didn't like to rely on others any more than he had to. To be trapped in a bed, lord knows where, unable to really move and desperate for someone, anyone, to help was the most humiliating and frightening experience of his life. Another pathetic whine was wrenched from cracked and bleeding lips, but this time the door opened and light footsteps approached the bed. A hand pushed back the drapes around the bed, and his angel peered down at him, his eyebrows drawn together and creating worry lines, his lips pulling downwards slightly.

Something in Draco's face must have given away what he needed, because his angel turned and picked up a glass and a pitcher from a table just out of the blonde's line of sight. Filling the glass with water, he returned to the bed and sat gingerly on the edge of it, his feet hanging and his torso twisted towards Draco. Reaching out, he slid a gentle hand beneath his head and lifted slightly, pressing the glass against his lips with the other. Draco drank eagerly; the angle was awkward and the effort painful, but the running down his chin and neck cooled his aching skin just as it soothed his parched throat. All too soon the glass was lifted away and his angle settled his head back against the pillow. Draco actually whimpered, and it mortified him that a Malfoy should ever be heard making such a sound.

To distract himself, he studied his angel, who was busy moving around the room, gathering what looked like salve and bandages. He was not very tall; Draco would guess him to be perhaps 5'9" or 5'10". His hair was a dark brown that looked almost black, and it curled and stuck out and spiked oddly in all directions, as though he had gone to sleep with it wet and then had a restless night. He kept blowing at it and brushing the fringe out of his extraordinarily green eyes, his frustration with it grow until he stopped and dug hair pins out of his pocket, shoving them roughly into his bangs to keep them pinned back. He was lightly tanned, a sweet honey color, and he was dressed simply in low slung cut-off shorts and a linen shirt he left unbuttoned. He was well muscled, but wiry, all sinews and sleek lines as he moved with a dancer's grace.

He returned with his arms full and dumped their contents on the end of the bed, raising a questioning eyebrow at Draco's obvious staring. Draco, too distracted by the situation to really care that he had just spent way too long checking out a guy, and then got caught doing it, met those bright eyes with his own stormy grey ones and waited. The other man broke their staring contest in favor of gently helping Draco into a sitting position. It took them a good twenty minutes to get him upright and propped against the pillows, and by then Draco's head was ringing and his nerves on fire. Gentle as he was being, his brunette angel couldn't touch him without hurting his skin, and the actual act of moving made every bone and muscle he had scream in protest.

Satisfied that he was upright and still conscious, the smaller man let him go and reached for a cloth soaking in a bowl of water. Carefully he began to bathe him, and Draco was fighting against the tears trickling unbidden down his cheeks when he was done. The man reached for a small pot of some sort of green gel next, dipping his fingers into it and then rubbing it into Draco's skin.

"This is aloe vera." He explained in a soft voice as he worked. "It will help with the burns on your skin. I dissolved some pain medication into the water you drank earlier. It should start kicking in soon."

Draco watched his hands move over his skin, feeling completely overwhelmed and not knowing what to do about it. He had never had someone care for him like this before- even when he was little and he got sick, it was always the nursemaids and the private doctors who would put him to bed and medicate him until he recovered. His father was always working, and his mother was a social butterfly who was always attending functions or planning for them, so they never really had much time for him when he was hurt or feeling poorly. This was entirely new for him…he drifted off as the pain ebbed and waned, and gentle hands smoothed his hair away from his face.

Right before he slipped under, he managed to rasp out one question. "Wh-what is your…name?"

That quiet tenor answered him, and with that in his mind, he let comforting darkness claim him.

"Harry."

**review please! i need to know what you guys think of this, to decide to continue, or work on something else and come back later. :)**


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